


The Road Out

by semiiramiis (HikaruAdjani)



Series: Servant of the One True King [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HikaruAdjani/pseuds/semiiramiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a development piece, written when I needed a little more insight into the back story of Servant/Chiaroscuro. I kept hinting to something special in the relationship between Besseth and Arthas, and honestly, I didn't know what it was myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day had brought a reprieve, and the young woman fought her way to wakefulness. Usually she was awakened with harsh words, even harsher hands, and the occasional sharp kick, for all she wanted to do lately was sleep, and there were chores to be done.

She blinked, studying the stained wall beside her. John had not come to wake her; even though the light was rosy upon that wall. James, likewise, had not come to wake her, trying vainly to spare her his brother's attention. She took a shallow breath, and listened...

Yes, she could hear John and James both, just in the doorway, their voices low and intense. "John." James hissed. "The only smart thing to do is to evacuate. Get Bess up. Get the cart. We head for Light's Hope and the paladins there..."

"And let Torgin have my land? There is no plague, James. It's all a trick to get the dam' fool peasants off of their land..."

The woman cringed at the barely restrained rage in that voice. When John sounded like that, she paid for it. "John. Torgin has already evacuated. We're the only ones left here."

Evacuation? This was the first that the woman had heard of it, and she frowned at the wall. Even if John was in the mood to take her along, which he undoubtedly wasn't, she was in no shape to run for Light's Hope. She'd just be a burden. James was an optimist... that cart, that ox, would not make it that far. If the menfolk ran, then they weren't taking her with them. Plague? An illness bad enough to chase Torgin from his land? Then she had no chance. She was already so sick that it seemed a sad miracle every morning she woke up into. Was this the way that this was finally going to end? Was this finally it? That would have bothered another, but it brought an odd calm peace in its wake.

"Cart won't make it to the crossroads, much less Light's Hope." John gloomily noted. "If we leave, James, then we leave it all. An' that includes Bess."

"She'll never survive a sickness, John."

"An' she'll never survive a trip to Light's Hope, James. It's all the same. An' do you want to turn up in a passel of paladins with her? They'd hang us for still living and what good would that do?"

"Then we leave her, John. To shift for herself. But we have to run."

Left alone to die, by herself. Bess had never contemplated such a great gift. Could she truly be that lucky? No...never. But James sounded serious enough, and his brother was not discounting the evacuation argument nearly as easily as he normally would. He was actually considering it, considering running, fleeing, these lands, and her.

"Then get your things. And leave her to sleep. I don't want to hear her whining at me." John grumbled. Bess smiled at the blank wall before her, she'd do precious little whining if that was indeed their plans. Maybe, one way or the other, she could finally free herself of this hell.

"Right." His brother sighed, and she heard him move back into the house. She felt him come up right behind her, and was not surprised when his hand fell on her shoulder. "Bess." He breathed and she shifted slightly.

"I heard, James." She murmured, and he sighed.

"Wait for us to be on our way, and then run. Head away from the capital, I'll leave you what I can in the salt barrel."

It took them precious little time to flee, the house had been eerily silent for more than an hour before Bess finally stirred and forced herself to stand. John was right, they'd taken precious little... the pigs still rested in their pen. The ox, her bones as visible as Bess's, still tied to her tree. It was another four hours before Bess convinced herself that they were truly gone, and that this wasn't a trick John was playing. The sun was high in the sky when she released the ox much as she'd been released, free to die off of a battered lead. The pigs were in better shape, lean but not emaciated, and showed little interest in leaving their pens when she propped the gates opened. There was a small bag of provisions in the bottom of the salt barrel, and Bess slung it over her shoulder as she headed down the path. It ended at the road, and she stopped. Away from the capital... a brilliant idea, except... she had no idea which way the capital was. Right? Left? Bess had never been more than five miles away from where she stood now. She didn't know where Light's Hope was. Had no idea where the capital was.

"Lovely, James." She muttered, glancing in both directions warily. "You could have guessed."

Well, he obviously hadn't, because she was still standing, at the road, lost as a stunned bee. Right? She looked down that way. It looked much the same as left did.

"Left."

Why she was so suddenly certain, she couldn't say. Bess had never been completely certain about anything before in her life, but she was suddenly sure that left was the way to go. And left was the way she went, headed straight down the road...towards the capital.

The day was warm, and Bess's waning strength faded more and more with every step. It was a blessing to be left alone, peaceful as she walked down the dusty track. She could die like this, left to her own devices, not beaten to death when John's rages rose as they did so often now. She had almost decided it was time to find a place to settle, well aware she was not going to make it to Light's Hope, or any other bastion, when she heard the first voices. They were low, calm, a welcome cool breeze in the air. Ordinarily, Bess would have turned away; tried hiding in the tall grasses beside the road, but the same certainty that had turned her left kept her walking calmly forwards.

There were five men in a covert next to the path, not a sign of horse or other mount between them, although she knew they were wealthy the first moment the light danced across darkened armor.

"Hail." The closest of them stated, and she could hear the edge of amused surprise under his voice.

"Hail the camp." She returned warily. Every fiber of sense told her the stupidest thing in the world she could have done, she had just done. John and James, and pretty much everyone else, had left her alone once the sores had started to show. She knew it had been too late for them all, for there were sores that had not shown for months before those that did did... but every male with a hair of sense cut her a wide berth now. But soldiers were an all different breed, if she'd wanted to commit suicide, home would have been a fine enough choice.

"Lost, Lambkin?" he chuckled, removing his helm. He was pleasant enough to look upon, she guessed. And he still had the cheery amusement clinging to him. His companions remained silent, oddly so for a group of men. "Which way do you head?"

"I was told to go to Light's Hope." She began, and a flow of expressions crossed his face, much too quickly to pin down. "But this isn't the way there." Where that came from, and why she said it, she wasn't certain. John and James had gone for Light's Hope. Obviously she didn't want to go there. Anything but John, again.

"No, you're quite right, Lambkin. This is most certainly not the way for Light's Hope. You've come from the way there..."

"She's touched." One of his previously silent companions noted, and Bess bristled. That was not the first time that statement had ever been brought up, and neither John nor her father had ever appreciated it. And when they didn't appreciate it, she didn't appreciate it.

"So she is." The first speaker glanced to his side, at the man who had not turned at her approach. That one remained ominously silent, his attention elsewhere, his head tilted as if someone unheard spoke to him.

"Welcome to our camp." He finally spoke. "Little one. Falric, see that she has something to eat, and a place to lay."

The amusement fled from the first's face like it had been slapped away. "Yes...your Majesty." He stumbled over the words, and Bess's stomach dived for her ankles. Majesty? What had she gotten into now? She attracted trouble like trumpet flowers attracted stingers, and today seemed no different. "This way...lady...?"

"Bess. M'name is Bess."

The first speaker...Falric...only nodded and began to rummage through bags, finally offering her a greased linen packet. "May be a little stale." He muttered, his gaze again going to the large, silent form staring in the direction she had been traveling towards. "Eat, and I'll get you a bedroll."

If it was stale, Bess couldn't tell. The bread was heavy, filling, baked with dried fruits. The savory loaf was filled with fine spices and meats. It was the best food she'd ever had, from a packet dragged out of the bottom of a bag. And the bedroll, likewise, clean, warm and thick. She was asleep the first moment her head touched it.

And she woke up to a completely unfamiliar sensation, a rolling, rocking movement. She was, as usual, too hot on awakening, wobbly, feverish and trembling. "She awakens, your Majesty. You wanted...?"

"She is to drink this. It will keep her going long enough."

Long enough? Long enough for what? And why? Not even John had considered keeping her going for any reason. He had been waiting for the inevitable, for her to drop dead, so he could find another. Besseth opened her eyes. She was cradled like a babe to the first knight, Falric, the bedroll she had fallen asleep in wrapped around his shoulders. "Drink." He murmured, and the very smell of the bottle made Besseth want to gag. The taste was worse, and if she could have struggled, she would have. But he had her completely bound in the roll, and she wasn't going anywhere. She repaid the compliment by vomiting all over him, a situation he accepted with silent stoicism. His companions accepted it with the same silence; the jeering retorts she'd been expecting never came. But she must have held some of the medicine down, because she faded right back into an uneasy sleep.

She woke to a thick silence. The illness had not died, it still hung around like an unwelcome visitor, but she felt better. Better than she had in months, and she shifted cautiously out of the bedroll her companions had been using to carry and contain her within. She had been left on a bed, in a farmhouse. Much nicer than John's, clean, and oh, so desperately empty. "Hello?" She called warily. Had they abandoned her here? If they had, they'd done a much better job of it than John had... the bedroll alone was much more than she'd left home with. There was a stack of those linen packets on the small table next to her. A wicked looking knife, almost as long as her forearm. A tiny black bottle. A jug of water. And a sheet of paper with some writing on it. She glanced at it, shrugged, and searched the house. Yes, quite empty... and more supplies scattered throughout the kitchen. The owners had obeyed the evacuation order, and left most of their possessions behind. She was definitely sitting better than she had been before falling in with the very quiet knights.

They returned at nightfall, and Besseth froze. They had not had horses before, and now, well, those weren't precisely horses. Well, those weren't precisely living horses. Those were dead. Skeletal. Their eyes burned with no mortal light, and she raised her own to Falric's helmed face.

"Bess." He sounded as wary as she did, his glance falling behind him to where she knew his lord followed him. "You seem...well."

"I feel better, yes." And why did she? And what payment would they exact for it? Surely they were bright enough to know better? Every other man had been when the sores started to show on her lips.

"Good." He did not so much climb from the horse as it dissipated beneath him, vanishing into the low lying fog. "You got my note?"

"Note?"

"Note. I left you a note..." He pulled his helm off and studied her for a long moment. "Oh." He finally stated, "You don't read. You didn't take the bottle?"

"No."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, that's good." The other...horses...pushed into the yard behind him, trailed by the massive, silent form of their owner's master. "It's poison. Would have been ugly if you had. Left it in case you needed...a little gentle persuasion. There are still people moving in this area. They might need a little hint that you are to be left alone."

"With the knife."

He frowned. "I'd prefer the poison, until we teach you better."

Teach? Since her mother had died, no one had bothered to teach Besseth anything at all. She shrugged, turning to go back into the house. No matter what, it was still better than home. So far, none of them had even raised a voice to her, much less a hand. She had food in her belly, hell; she had medicines in her belly. A warm roll. And now, a weapon. John would have died before he'd armed her.

A good dinner was definitely in order. They'd done such a fine job of caring for her that they deserved some sort of payment. And a payment that wouldn't give them the same sores that she'd given to John. And, rather unfortunately, to James. But that couldn't be helped.

Falric studied her as she worked, the ominous silence of the royal one behind him. It didn't seem right, somehow, that royalty...and Besseth was willing to agree that was indeed that, would be out here like this. Without any more people than these four to take care of him and keep him well.

"Of course not, little one." The royal one stated into the silence and Falric glanced between them. "That's why you've come, isn't it? To serve...me? To serve who I serve? Come to me so that I can care for you, give you a place, and you grow into my service?"

"Ah...yes...?" Well, it certainly sounded good. Serving royalty was an obvious step up from serving John. She placed plates down on the table, while Falric stared at her. The other three stood, silent as statues. She'd never heard any of them speak. Seen any of them without their helms...

"You don't need that many, Besseth." Falric finally stated. "Only two will be eating."

"I..." Don't understand. She almost said the words, but something held them. The fewer questions asked, the better... He smiled slightly, as if she'd said the thought.

"Exactly, Lambkin. Exactly."

She had plenty to work with, and was able to produce a fairly decent meal in her eyes. Probably not for royalty, but the silent stoicism of his men seemed to be shared by the royal one, who merely sat and ate. And ate well, surprising her. John wouldn't have let a meal pass without some comment or slap, but this one did.

"We ride in the morning." He finally stated, long after the silence had become how it was to be. "We must catch up with the urn."

"Ah. So we leave the woman?" Falric demanded, and the royal one glanced up, his green eyes falling first on her face, and then Falric's. Besseth was not even remotely put off; they'd done more than she could have ever asked for. As well as she felt, she could probably make it somewhere, if not Light's Hope, especially after what she'd found here.

"No."

"We...kill the woman?" One of the silent ones finally spoke, and Besseth wished he hadn't. Surely they hadn't done all this just to kill her now? It made no sense. They could have done that at the crossroads with much less fuss...

"No." He stood, extending a hand to Besseth. She was leery, after the talk had turned to killing, but she took it. He led her out into the yard, darkened, silent...eerie. It felt as the world had just...ceased to be. And like this, it would never bother her again. She could be wrapped, safe, in this stillness. The royal one chuckled, coming up behind her and planted his open left hand against her belly, and her right hand in his. "Exactly." He breathed in the same voice as the mourning breeze moved through the trees with. "No one will touch what is mine, Besseth. And you were called to be mine. They let you rot, Besseth. It is time for you to bring the rot to them. Make them pay. What have they ever done for you?"

Nothing. From the moment her mother had died, no one had done anything at all for Besseth. That had changed. And these were the ones who had changed it. "Nothing, Majesty..." She could feel a rising in her gut, things clicking into place, reality changing around her. Power, a glut of it, and the illness waning within her. Not gone, but lurking, held at bay.

"Exactly nothing. And we will change that. But first, you need a mount, for tomorrow, we ride hard. So. Feel them out there..."

The world slowed, thickened around her. There were things out there to feel, when he pointed them out. So close. Had they always been there, waiting, watching? "Call one of them. Attract its attention. Pull it to you..."

There was a faint whinny on the wind, and the royal one raised his eyes in its direction. "Nicely done." He stepped back, his gaze falling on the one who had inquired if they were going to be killing Besseth, and shook his head. "She comes with us."

The whinny grew louder, and Besseth could hear hooves coming on fast. A horse sprinted up the hill into the yard, dark in the shadows. It snorted, stopping, and Besseth regarded it. It would be impressive, except for its vacant eyes and the gaping wound in its side. It was dead. As dead as four of the five men with her. Only the royal one yet lived...

"It's dead." There was a keening in her voice that she would have killed if she could have. She felt Falric move cautiously, and locked eyes with him. "You're dead. You're all dead!"

"And you, Lambkin, walk on the verge of death."

She'd known that. It had been obvious to all of those around her. Besseth was dying. A long, slow, drawn out death that would not be wished on an animal. Dying before she'd ever really even lived, just one terrible moment after the next. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Nothing had ever been. And sadly, it seemed that the best group of men she'd ever met in her life were dead.

"She is not up to this task, your Majesty." Falric sighed, shaking his head. "It is too much to ask of her..."

"If she were raised..." The one who seemed to only have death, her death, on his mind mused. "That would overcome much of what she lacked."

"No. "The royal one finally disagreed. "She must live. She must serve. She called a dreadsteed true enough. She can channel the power quite easily, it flows through her. The master wants her."

Master? The royal one called someone else master? Fascinating. A master who wanted...Besseth? Fascinating as well, in a dire sort of way she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. He paused, as if waiting for her to ask, but Besseth had learned long ago that asking impertinent questions got her bloodied and bruised for her troubles. She knew better now.

"Ah." He breathed slowly. "All the questions beaten out of you. Pity. We'll have to work on that. Until then, Besseth…" He pulled another vial from a pouch and handed it to her. "Your medicine. Try not to vomit it this time. We don't have much of it left. We ride in the morning and you'll need to be able to stay in your saddle." He glanced at the dead horse she'd called, and then shrugged. "Eat. Sleep. Bathe, and have Falric tend your wounds. We ride at first light."

Eat. That was easily enough done, although Besseth had eaten more in the past four days than it seemed she had eaten in her entire life. Take the medicine. Not as easily, or as pleasantly done as the eating, but still a viable task. Bathe… again, not pleasant, huddled in the tiny hip bucket as an amused and stoic Falric dumped water over her head and sponged out the worst of the welts of John's attentions. "Who?" He asked after a long silence.

"Husband." Besseth replied tersely. The only thing that made this at all bearable was that he still behaved himself impeccably. There was no lust, no real interest except an interest in cataloguing and tending the damage done, in his eyes or manner.

"Animal." He replied. "Doesn't matter now. He'll never have you back."

Besseth believed him to the bottom of her soul. And she'd give that soul, and heart, to any who promised that. She had few doubts that these five were bad, that they harbored darkness in their souls. That was fine; the past decade had grown quite a few shadows in her own soul. And sleep…well; warm, dry, full and dosed… it came easily enough.

Besseth rode at the tail of the group, behind one of the silent ones. He occasionally turned his head enough to be certain she still followed, but otherwise the six of them rode in silence. Even the horses made little noise, sliding from one patch of leaf mould to the next. She was dulled into near lassitude when her mount suddenly stopped. The one before him had halted. As had they all, up to the royal one who rode at the front. He flicked a hand commandingly, and his retinue, Besseth included, fanned out along the rise he had stopped on. It overlooked a road, and she could see dust, hear hooves coming closer.

"Uther…." The royal one breathed when the riders became visible. There were four of them, coming slowly down the road. All men. All heavily armed and armored, their very stances felt…somber. Tragic.

"Prince Arthas?" Falric asked, and there was the faintest edge of doubt in his voice, and the royal one…the prince… tilted his head. "We cannot mean to…"

"Besseth. Do you know who that man is?" Although he did not gesture in any way, she knew he meant the man riding in the front right.

"No." It was the truth. She'd never clapped eyes on him before in her life.

"That is Uther, the Lightbringer. A great paladin…"

She curled a lip. Paladins. What a joke. Lying, arrogant hypocrites… What good were they? Protectors of the downtrodden, indeed. She ran a thoughtful thumb over the cluster of sores at the corner of her mouth. "So?" She finally demanded and he laughed.

"She says so, Falric. I agree with that judgment. My judge has spoken…"

Something slid within her soul, as if some facet of her being had been uncovered, recognized for the very first time. A nod, if it were.

"You are his judge. So it is."

"Tell me, Besseth… Is he worthy?"

She regarded the man through narrowed eyes. "He is worthy." She finally whispered, and Arthas tilted his head, listening to that unheard voice again. Why she'd said something that blatantly stupid, she wasn't certain. Silence was always the best answer. How could she be overlooked when she spoke out of turn?

"Worthy, yes. As only you can see. As only you can tell Arthas. However, that one has something we need. Something he will not give up without his blood being spilled for it. Spill his blood, my judge. Take my gift, ride at Arthas's side, and take what must be taken. Walk forwards, there is no going back."

"But he must die anyways. He has the urn." Well, at least when she broke from sanity, she did it in good company. Mad princes and dead retainers, it was all good.

"Quite." Arthas agreed, and his steed moved to intercept.


	2. Chapter 2

Falric looked uncertain, leaning to grasp Besseth's shoulder as he passed by.

"Stay here, Lambkin." He muttered, his voice audibly stunned. "If things go badly, run. If they catch you, remember, you have done nothing wrong. Tell them that and keep saying so." He released her and spurred his steed faster to catch up with his prince and the others. Besseth considered his words, and the stance of those men, nodded slowly and turned her own steed away from the road, seeking a deep covert. She could hear the deep challenges of male voices, but it was muted, almost hidden under the whisper of the wind and the humming of power from the voice in her soul.

"Move. Forward. Quickly."

Although she had been told to, and fully intended to obey, her steed threw itself into a gallop, surging alongside the road in time to collide with a fully barded war steed, sandwiching it between the dead mass of flesh and Falric's equally dead mount. It threw the war steed off balance, tossing the rider harshly onto the horse's neck. The paladin's sword fell, missing Falric by a few feather widths, and dropped to the ground.

"Damn you both!" The paladin snarled, a moment before Falric brought his own weapon down in full force. Besseth could only sit, stunned, and now painted in blood. She'd seen plenty of things die, when times were good, there was meat for the slaughter. Even seen people die, her mother, for one, but this was the first death by violence she'd ever experienced….

"Your timing is impeccable, Lambkin." Falric coughed, "I am in your debt…"

"We are both servants of the Master." Where that came from, Besseth wasn't certain, but it definitely sounded good. And by the expanding grin across Falric's face, he agreed. He nodded, yanked up his reins and spun his mount…charging back towards the prince and the fully fledged fight. Unlike this, Besseth had no urge, natural or otherwise, to add to that one.

"No. That one will kill you. You have much to learn, Besseth, and now is not the time to do so."

It was over. Besseth slid from her mount, moving slowly up to the fallen men. So much blood… So much silence. It swathed the roadway in isolation, and the dust hung in the dead air. A crime, she'd just helped commit a crime. No, a sin. Played a hand in a tragedy she didn't quite grasp. Falric grasped it, she could feel his shock. He stood motionless beside the road, staring at the bodies.

"Besseth." Arthas commanded, and she came to his side quickly, the axe still heavy in her hands.

"Your Majesty?" She whispered, suddenly bashful. There were things going on here that she did not understand and truly wished she did. How else was she supposed to make the right decisions? Listening to voices and gut feelings? Only a fool did that. But if that were so, then Besseth was a true fool. She'd turned left instead of right. Come into the camp instead of hiding. Taken the gifts of the dead and the mad, ridden with them, and now, helped kill for them.

He removed his gauntlet, cradling the urn to his chest, while he rested his bare hand over the fallen paladin's breached armor and flowing heart blood. "You did well. Find a weapon. Gather what armor will come close to fitting you…and…."

His eyes flickered, she recognized the expression. His voice was talking to him. Yes, she was definitely where she belonged, true enough. He took his bloodied, crimson hand and dipped his thumb into the urn. "Besseth." He muttered, smearing a grainy trail of blood and some of the contents of the urn in a wide swath across her forehead. It burned in her sores, and she again felt something…not quite break, but shift…in her soul. "Be anointed with the blood of my mentor and the ashes of my father, my servant."

"What now?" She asked, and he smiled, dumping the contents of the urn out into the roadway.

"We ride…north." The smile remained, and Besseth shrugged slightly. She had no idea which way was north, or even what lay to the north. "After you supply yourself. Take whatever you need. Hell, take whatever you want." Something amused him in that, but she didn't understand. And she really didn't want to. She took the jewelry from them, all had worn rings, and the elder one, Uther, had worn an amulet engraved with some words now marked with his drying blood. Falric helped her pick the most suitable armor, most of it from the smallest of the fallen, and cinched her into it as tightly as it would go and he gave her a leg up back onto her horse.

The armor was heavy. Hot. Smelled unpleasantly of overheated male, which combined nastily with the smell of rotting equine beneath her. The breeze should have been brisk, scented with ripening fields and warm evergreens, but it also was heavy with the rising smell of dead bloating in the late summer heat. Things had gone very wrong; this must be the plague that had driven even John from his home. They drew even with what had once been a prosperous farm, well beyond the ramshackle buildings of home. Those crops that remained in the field were high, had been healthy. The fences were sound and strong. But that was all that was hale and right with the scene.

"What….?" Besseth spouted, and the men all glanced at her. She'd never seen the like before; the closest would have to be the horse she rode. Except that the form shambling towards them had once been human. The others, milling uneasily around the farmhouse, the fine barn, also had been human. They were dead. They were moving. She should feel panic, threat, but she only felt a vague curiosity, and an even stronger distain. Not worthy.

Arthas glanced at her as if she'd spoken the latter, instead of the former. "They will be useful." He stated, "Later. But for now, we rest here. You know the drill, Besseth, Falric."

She sighed. More food. More sleep. More medicine, and probably another bath. Her sweat burned and chafed, especially where it ran through the scabbing wounds down her back and sides. The smear across her forehead still itched and tingled long after when it should have stopped.

There were dead in the house, but they shooed out easily enough, much nicer than pigs and calmer than sheep. Even coming close enough to reach and touch them brought no feeling of threat from them, only the same vaguely maternal disregard and inconvenience.

Eat. She fumbled around in the kitchen, looking. There was more than there had been at the last farm, but so much had spoiled in the warm weather. She hesitated to place what she finally managed in front of the prince, but again, he ate without complaint and nodded what could almost pass as a thanks when he was done.

"You seem to be feeling better today." He noted slowly, and she paused, debating whether or not to bother to clear the table. Why, when they were just going to leave it in the morning? The dead wouldn't care, and none of her companions seemed to…

He was correct. In spite of the long ride, short fight, and unfamiliar weight, she felt better than she had in a long, long time. "I do, your Majesty, yes. Thank you…"

"Get some sleep. I think we'll save the medicine, for now. In case you worsen before I can get you to where you need to be."

She frowned. Where was that, precisely? So many unanswered questions, and she was wary to ask them. Every time she asked, she was shown the back of a hand, and these five were nothing she wanted to get on the wrong side of. John had been big, heavy, but just a man. Just a farmer with heavy fists. These were undead, with gauntleted fists and glowing swords. So far, they had treated her better than any had, and she was willing to let the questions go for now. She rolled out her bedroll by the cool venting up from the root cellar, and fell immediately asleep.

She woke up to silence, again. She had been moved at some point, gently tucked into a bed, in a room. The door hung open, and she could sense one of the dead ones just beyond, watching in the hallway. She pulled on her sweat soaked gambeson, and wiggled into the armor the best she could. His gaze acquired her the moment she moved, and he pressed a gloved finger to his faceplate in the universal silencing motion. "Tscha, small one." He whispered. "The living are close by."

"Where is the prince?" She breathed softly.

He inclined his head farther down the hallway, toward the door of the room next to hers. "We will wake him if it is necessary. So far, it is not."

Besseth nodded, and took the hint. She'd been moved upstairs for a reason. He was keeping quiet for a reason. They were lying low, and that was just fine. She had no urge to be caught and punished for any of this. None of it had been her idea anyway. She turned, lying back on the bed and just hung, caught somewhere between awake and dozing. She vaguely heard the prince arise. Heard him carry on a short conversation with their overseer, and was surprised when she heard his footsteps come into the room with her. But all he did was go to the window beside the bed and stare intently out of it. He looked towards the living, she guessed.

"Are they a problem?" She finally asked. He was the prince, why was he…cautious? He was not hiding, true, but he wasn't exactly drawing attention to himself.

"Could be." He finally allowed after a long pause. "There are only the six of us, Besseth. If they gathered in strength to avenge Uther's loss, we could have difficulties."

"Where are the others?" There were others, that she was certain of. She could feel them, like an undertow. Many, many others.

"Stratholme."

She nodded slowly. Not close, but they existed. That was good. She only hoped that Stratholme was the promised way north. He shifted slowly, half of his face obscured in shadow. "They pull away now. Think we're already on the way to Stratholme, and seek to catch us. You can go downstairs now, but we will not be leaving until later. Closer to darkness."

The others stood downstairs, so still as she moved by them on her way to the kitchen. As was becoming a habit, she ransacked the kitchen, pleased to find a pot of honey and a bottle of vinegar. The mint by the back door was older, woody this late, but it would have to do. She cooked it all into a thick syrup, stoppering it into a waterskin when it was done. There was meal, dried meats, fruit, and she filled her pack with all that she could carry.

Which was a good thing because the prince had little urge to pause after that. They left at twilight, a line of silent forms riding stubbornly forward. They rode through a demolished village at dawn, the populace present, moving, mindless…dead. There were things, monsters really, on the streets, giant gatherings of rotting, sewn flesh.

"Heh!" One of them exclaimed when Besseth drew even with it. "Pretty! What you want?"

That was even worse than the mindless. This…whatever it was….had some sort of a mind. She could sense it. Feel the malign innocence in it, and that was a fascinating horror. It was sloppy, hurried, unworthy. Beneath her regard, and she informed the twelve foot mass of that fact with a waved hand.

"Right, milady." It almost whined, backing away from her. "Bad me."

"You do not fear it?" The prince asked, and Besseth turned to regard him. She should fear it, she knew that. She should fear so much, starting with the selfsame prince who asked the question. His undead retainers. The shambling undead that were more and more prevalent. And now this, but she didn't. She should fear the heavy, orange tinted air. The death all around her, but still, she didn't.

"No. It's…sloppy. Badly wrought."

"Badly wrought." He drawled. "Therefore, unworthy?"

"Bad is unworthy, yes, your Majesty."

He removed his helm, nodding slowly. "Bad is indeed unworthy, Besseth. And I will be truly fascinated to find out just what you are, when this is all said and done."

She took a deep swig of the syrup flavored water she carried, handing the canteen over when he gestured a request for it. "I'm contagious." She noted, and he only laughed, taking a long drink himself. "Not worried, little one. That is…good. Have any to spare?"

"I do." She pulled one of the smaller bottles of syrup from her pack, handing it over. "Chases the dust down well. My mother used to make it… Of course this is the same woman who told me once I'd find a prince among men…" When all there had been was John and James…

"I am a prince among men." He proclaimed solidly, and she glanced over and up at him. "In fact, Besseth of Southcross, I am a king amongst all that is, and you found me."

True enough.

There was indeed an army at Stratholme. A great army of the rotting, moving, undead. And again, Besseth looked out over them with little thought or feeling. They didn't move her in any way, no fear, not even a true disgust. They just were. Like tree stumps, or bushes. There were living here, as well, and those she eyed with a little more worry. The undead were not her concern, but living men were. She was no camp follower. She'd been brought here for more.

She gazed at the nearest cluster of them warily, debating whether or not this required a return to Falric's side, or to hide behind the prince.

"The cult will not harm you. In fact, they will keep you going when the arts of undeath cannot. You live. Breathe. They will tend to when those who do not cannot tend you anymore."

Servants? Besseth glanced at them in grave puzzlement. Tend? One only tended masters, and paradoxically, tended animals. But the twist of the statement definitely felt like they were meant to serve her, .not the other way around.

"They serve you. Yes."

Senseless. They looked much important than Besseth could ever hope to be, in their fine robes. They had horses, good, shiny black horses, while Besseth's so called mount dropped more and more hunks of flesh the further he went. His mane hung off the side of his neck, and the crater in his abdomen had doubled in size.

"Worthy is not an outward characteristic, but you already know that. Ride. Quel'thalas awaits you. You await it."

Whatever that happened to be. Besseth had never heard of a who or what named that, but she was well aware she was woefully uneducated. Her mama had tried to teach her, for awhile. She had a vague memory of having actually been taught to read, once, but that had faded so long ago.

"Let me help you with that, lady." One of the black robed men offered when she struggled to dismount without landing on her rump. Lady. He called her…lady. The mound of flesh had also, but that one was broken, a malicious child in the body of a monster. This was a man, apparently blind to the finer points of her status. "There's food. A tent for you. We were informed that the King travelled with a living servant, and that we are to care for you until the ride for Quel'thalas begins…"

"Quel'thalas?" It was tiring, having everyone, even the voice in her soul, assume she knew…

"Quel'thalas." He pointed, and Besseth would bet he pointed in the promised northerly direction. "The homeland of the high elves, lady. The King rides against them."

"Oh." That was fine. Besseth had never seen one of those, either. Elves were not commonly found hanging around hovels in Southcross. They were, to her, as much as a tale as dragons and….princes. "Show me this tent."

It was a fine tent, as well. With a camp bed instead of the ground, or a cot. There was food, plenty of it, good food. And the man's eyes most certainly did not show her anything she feared. He remained polite unto the point of deference, cautious with his care. Still, everything was good, and Besseth sank into a deep sleep.

"It's time to go, Lambkin."

Besseth opened her eyes to darkness, Falric's bulk eclipsing what little light came in through the tent fly he stood in. "The Cult will be in to help you harness, and we ride." He continued, and was gone. As promised, the dark robed man was on his heels, a bundle in his hands.

"New gambeson, which might actually fit you. We replaced the straps, more holes, best could be done in the time we had, lady. Take care, and may the Lich King's blessings go with you…"

He harnessed her with a graceful speed, running the tongues of straps through buckles with the ease of long practice. "Scourge the living, my lady."

But I'm living. You're living. The Prince lives.

The road gave into a thick forest, and Besseth shuddered. One tree was good. It gave shade, a landmark, a place to rest. Often it gave nuts, or fruits. An orchard was good, mannerly and precise. This was a smothering bank of trees. The only relief came on their trail; they left a path, a roadway, of plain desolation in their wake. The trees themselves died at their touch, rotted and fell, gone into dust by the time the last of their forces and machines had made it through.

And there were things in those trees. Forms that had already gone before Besseth could get her head turned and her eyes planted on their motion. She started the assault at the prince's side, but by three weeks, she was far off to his flank, behind the main element. There was too much destruction in his path, too much blight, and Besseth grew hungry. The days of going from farm to farm helping herself were long gone. She'd eaten everything she carried, and none of the ground around her seemed to have any of the things she knew to be edible. No squirrels. No moving animals. No nuts. No fruit. The trees were a ceaseless desert. If he wasn't so bloated, so blighted, she might even consider eating her own mount but the very idea made her stomach roll. He had been long dead when he'd been called, weeks ago. Now…no.

And the hungrier she got, the louder she heard the voice in her soul. If she had walked the verge of death earlier, what was she doing now? She felt both increasingly frail in body, and stronger in spirit as she pressed forwards.

"They must be stopped." Declan's voice trembled beneath his unyielding words. Must be. But they didn't seem to be making any sort of headway to stop them. The ranger general had fallen. The land died in their grasp. And they pressed forward, inexorably. Those of the Quel'dorei who fell before them did not stay down, but rose, to join the enemy ranks. It was a never ceasing cycle with no end in sight. For all of his people's greatness and ability, they seemed fated to annihilation. "Where is Kael'thas?"

"Don't know." The voice that answered him was almost exactly his own, and he sighed gustily. Diarmid had returned. His twin still lived, that was wondrous. He could keep going with that fact ascertained. "What I do know is that there is an undead unit coming this way. Some sort of scout, I'd guess."

Scout. They didn't seem bright enough for that; most of them were just corpses. They had no remorse. They felt no pain. They just kept coming. "They're dead, Diarmid."

"They might be. The officer with them is most certainly not."

"Eh?" Capturing and interrogating the mindless undead was a large exercise in futility, but if they could get their hands on one of the living…one of the minds behind this, they'd have something to go on, at least. There was a chance they could find out why. Who. To what purpose this slaughter served. Something, anything…at all. To make sense out of the senseless…

"Show me."

Diarmid did, and Declan narrowed his eyes. The group consisted of what he had become all too accustomed to seeing, the dead. In forms he had never contemplated possible. Necromancy was not his gift, not his leaning, and this was an abomination of a scale he couldn't completely comprehend. But yes. Mounted on a dead animal, a horse so long gone that strips of its flesh hung like ornaments, was a living, breathing, human woman. And she was most certainly scouting, riding switchback across the path of the dead vanguard she followed.

He glanced warily at his twin, who returned the look, before he cautiously touched her mind. She was warded, carrying at least one consecrated item, but it was not tied to her. Certainly not enough to keep him out of her thoughts…

Hunger hit him first…she was not scouting, she was looking for food. She had not eaten in days, kept going by some sort of tonic drink. Her urge to eat was knee weakening, mind contorting, and he bit his lip. He must keep the contact, through this. Her distraction would keep him hidden…

"Hungry." He breathed. "So damned hungry. The main element destroys all it touches, leaves nothing…can't stay with them. Nothing here."

Diarmid hissed, grasping his shoulders and taking his weight. "Stay with her, Declan. What does she want?"

"Food. So hungry. So sick. Can't stay in the saddle, can't get down. Has to be something, anything…"

"What is she?"

"Human. Her soul is touched with power, mageborn. So much of it, just…lying there. Untapped. Rotting within her." He could feel his brother's supporting stance. "She can't die, or they get her completely. They get that part of her. That cannot be."

"Declan, she serves the dead. The monsters tearing our homeland apart…"

"She's just a little girl, Diarmid. She's only here because they brought her here. She doesn't care one way or the other. She's hungry. Sick. Wretched."

"She must die, Declan!"

"She cannot die, Diarmid! She must live. Must live. If they get what she has, then the world will tremble."

"The world already trembles, Declan. But you are correct, those fallen rise again, and I will not give them a nascent mageborn so easily. And her soul? What sort of a person is she?"

Declan dropped the connection, staring mutinously into the deepest dark of the trees. "She has a glorious soul. Wrapped up and carried deep within her, where no one can touch it. I can feel the touch of the dead upon her, something was done to her to mark her as theirs, but they have not marked that. They have not touched that. Diarmid, what are we going to do?"

"Fight until we die…same as everyone else."

That was not an option. If they did that, then when they fell, they became part of that army. And the vast majority of that army was just walking meat. Dead. Empty. It just couldn't be. He was too damned good for that. His brother, more than too damned good. They were special. And that was most certainly not the ending for a special pair of young men. He'd rather sell his soul to that wastrel young woman, haunting a battlefield for food, than go down like that.

"If we can take her…" Declan considered, and his brother snorted.

"This is not a common war, Declan. Taking an officer will not get you a ransom, a communication. If she dies, then they keep her anyway. The best is to destroy her, completely. So much as all she could possibly rise as would be a shade or a dust devil. Obliterate her."

Declan nodded, but it was not a nod of agreement. It sounded well, and was indeed logical. But it was too late, he had touched that soul, listened to it, and was uncertain he could try to destroy it. And yes, even if her physical form was destroyed, she was now so deeply knotted in with the undead that she would still rise… As a lot more than the dusty remains of a human body attacked by two fire mages. He'd rather face her alive, still firmly attached to her body, than unleash that onto the battlefield and Quel'thalas.

"We can obliterate her body, but that would only release that soul. It would know no peace, and would continue to destroy. Right now, she's too hungry and distracted to be of any use to them. If she were released from that body…" He sighed, dropping his forehead into his hand. If she were released, then the hunger and distraction would melt away. All that would remain would be focused servitude.

"She'd become a lich."

Declan blinked, raised his eyes. That was even worse than the shade idea…..

"You said she is mageborn. Nascent. Imbued. If she dies here, now, like this… wouldn't that make her a lich?" Diarmid questioned slowly, and his twin did not bother to bite off the array of curses that rose to his lips. Diarmid had always been the less adept, but often the more insightful, of the two as mages.

"The possibility exists." There were liches on the battlefield. This torrent of hell obviously had the way to raise them, and where there was one, there could be more. The death knell of that soul, already claimed, dying on this field would bring them in droves to raise her.

"So…sad as it is, obliterating her does appear to be, at the second glance, not such a wise idea."

"It only gives them another lich. Why she isn't one already, I do not know."

"Then we're damned either way." She had been the only bright spot they'd seen, and there was nothing they could do with her. And killing her was a disaster in the making. "I say we take her on anyway. She will die at some point during this…." How could she not? The very air she breathed was heavy with illness, illness was already planted deep within her, and from touching her soul, she was hungry enough to be mad. She would not survive an attack on Silvermoon, and that's where her path was going to take her. She would arrive, at her speed, at the same time, on the flanks, of the forward columns. She would be that lich, if that's what she was destined to be.

"And at least this fine lich will remember us forever?" There was only the slightest edge of sarcasm in Diarmid's reply, and Declan nodded. They would have done their duties. Stood for Quel'thalas. Created a monster, which would of course turn on them, and….

"You are my brother. My soul." Diarmid breathed, standing and staring in her direction. "And we die today…as we were born. Together."

The attack came from nowhere. One moment Besseth had been glaring at an apple tree, just a couple of weeks off from bloom, the apples tiny, stone hard…and the next moment she was bowled across the ground, the dead mount rolling over her. She was stunned, but the dreadsteed set up an immediate and grotesque whinnying wail.

"Damn it." She hissed, struggling to her feet, the dreadsteed surging to its hooves behind her. It did not cease wailing, even when it was upright again, and she yanked in annoyance on its reins. Who? Where? She scanned the trees in confusion.

They parted, and she stilled. Standing in the brash sunlight, arrogant, assured, a come hither smile if she'd ever seen one plastered across his face…a male…something. Elf. Male elf. The singly most beautiful example of male that she had ever seen, even more lovely than the prince. Dressed in a violet and silver that set off his dawn colored hair… his garb much more kingly and noble than the prince she had followed here.

"Uh." She managed gracefully, and that come hither smile widened.

"You dropped your axe, lady. You should probably collect it up again."

Axe? She glanced around in confusion, fighting to put sense together through the hunger and now the ringing in her ears from the blow he'd centered on her. Hurt? Yes. She had been, and her damnable luck would have it that the elf had struck from her left; she had landed hard on her right shoulder. There was no way in hell that she could wield that axe, even if she had the slightest idea how.

"He's a distraction. The threat is coming up behind you…."

Besseth spun, and only the focus granted from the voice in her soul kept her from yet another stunned revelation. There were two of them. "No!" She snarled in a voice not entirely her own. "Stay away from me!"

"Call those in the area. Bring them to you."

"To me!" It was meant to come out as a soft question; it arrived as a belling command. The shuffling in the undergrowth, so constant now that she didn't notice it, paused, then started up louder, headed in her direction.

"Damn it!" The male who had been behind her, but was now in front, responded with a sudden flash of violet tinged power hurled in her direction. Magic. Besseth had never seen magic before. This was all over her head….

"No it is not, my servant. Take my gifts. Rain down upon these two…"

"Yes, my master…" She cast an opened hand at her attacker, and he jerked through the air towards her. She planted the flat of the axe along his face, and he dropped like a rock. She used her impetus to keep the spin going, ending it facing the first.

"Kill him." There was desperation in that one's voice, and she blinked. He glanced back towards the trees, then his head snapped back. "Kill him, damn you, woman! Don't let them have him!"

"If he prefers to give his twin, himself, to you, rather than the wave, so be it."

The trees parted, and an abomination peered cautiously through, its grotesquely amused features lighting up as it viewed the scene. "Eh!" It exclaimed. "Toy fun! Pretttttty!"

At that, the first male elf galvanized into motion, charging Besseth. She met him in the middle, instinctively planting the axe handle in the ground behind her and meeting his charge headspike of the axe first. The fine robes he wore were little defense, it pierced deeply, leaving Besseth dancing to try and avoid being taken down with him. She finally got the axe wrenched free, and advanced on his still doppelganger. Twins. They were twins, paired and beautiful.

"Kill him. They must stand together."

She raised the axe above her head and let it fall, letting the rush of blood through her ears obliterate the harsh cheer from the abomination.

"Pretty lady." It snorted. "Need no help. Yell again if do." It vanished again into the undergrowth, humming a childhood lullaby off tune under its breath, leaving Besseth alone, in the clearing, under an apple tree with tiny apples.

They were dead. She had killed them…or more precisely, they had committed suicide by her. A deep gulf of sadness welled up within her, and almost without thought, she dragged the first to rest under the apple tree beside his twin. "What have I done?" She demanded, but now, when she needed the answers the most, there was only damning silence in her soul. She had destroyed these. They had been lovely, and now, they weren't. Rage, panic, and self condemnation built in her heart. She sat between then, grasped the fistful of their violet robes which rested over their hearts in a hand each. She could feel the welling of the lives away, feel the attention of the drifting ones attracted by their dying…no. They were hers. She'd killed them, they belonged to her. No one else's.

"Come back!" It was force beyond any that Besseth had ever dreamed of. Power. Focus. "I bid you, return!"

The first of the drifting ones appeared in the clearing as the twins died at the same moment. Its skull visage was locked upon the tableau before it, and it approached silently. It said nothing, and approached no closer than three horse lengths. Another appeared, and mimicked the same response. "Come back, damn you!" Besseth hissed, "I…didn't….do…this…."

There was a sudden blow of power, a dizzying crescendo, and then…blackness.

She woke, back in her camp bed. In her tent. With the same male cultist as a month before hovering over her… a strong smell of broth in the air. "You've awakened. Good. You can feed yourself now." He chuckled, pressing a cup into her hand. "You have been very slow to come around. You missed the raising of Kel'thuzad…it was a glory indeed."

Besseth had much more interest in the cup and its contents than missed glories… whatever Kel'thuzad was. It was no matter, but the thin soup was of grave importance. She drank it quickly and looked hopefully around for more. The cultist made an approving noise, refilled it, but would not give her another when it followed the first. "In an hour or so. It will do you little good if you can't keep it down. I will leave you in the care of your children for now…"

Children? Besseth did not try to hide her puzzled stare. She had none. Every time she had settled with one, John had snatched it away. It had been a quiet blessing when she had finally just stopped settling at all. Besseth was now as barren as Lordaeron.

"Good evening, my mother." The voice was beyond beauty, and she stared at the form in the tent flap with stunned recognition. It was the first of the male elves who had attacked her. So unbelievably beautiful…

"Mother?"

"You raised me from the dead. Gave me my mind, and a whole body. Held me away from…" His long, thin fingers waved towards the outside. "That. It's not perfect, but it's a hell of a lot more than I would have gotten otherwise. I am Declan Noonshimmer. Outside is my twinned brother, Diarmid. What now?"

She sighed, wished there was more in her cup. "I don't know." She answered truthfully, and he merely nodded.

"Our existences are at the master's whim." He agreed pleasantly, sitting to lean against the bed beside her. It was a companionable feeling, foreign, and Besseth wasn't certain she quite liked it. "Grant us your name?"

"Besseth, of Southcross." He nodded, his ears swaying with the motion. "It is an honor. Rest. Recover. We ride soon…"

She nodded…this was, after all, just the beginning….


End file.
